


On His Sleeve

by swordliliesandebony



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Sex, Body Worship, Established Relationship, Heartbeat Kink, If You Squint - Freeform, M/M, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn with Feelings, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-24
Updated: 2018-04-24
Packaged: 2019-04-27 04:46:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14417979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/swordliliesandebony/pseuds/swordliliesandebony
Summary: There is a man in Insomnia, in service of the Chosen King, who wears flowers on his sleeve. They say he can kill with a single look. They say the King's Shield was pierced at heart by his blade and that he never managed to recover.Ignis, Gladio, and their various ways of displaying love.





	On His Sleeve

_ There is a man in Insomnia, in service of the Chosen King, who wears flowers on his sleeve. They say he can kill with a single look. _

* * *

 

 

Gladio has to restrain himself, has to stop his fingers from tracing the dark, delicate lines. He wants to follow the lightly curved stem down Ignis's forearm, wants to feel the thrumming pulse at the very edge. He wants to use his fingers and his lips to count the impossibly intricate petals. He wants to taste the subtle bursts of red and gold and know if they're so delicious as they appear. But the ink is still fresh and shimmering with protectant gel and the flesh raised and pink and angry and Gladio settles instead on burying his face in the warm junction of throat and shoulder.

"It suits you." He lets the words get lost in inviting skin.

"I'm glad you think so. Iris suggested it, you know. She says it's family tradition." There's a hint of amusement in Ignis's voice where it rumbles beneath Gladio's lips and it brings a sensation of a chest too small to contain a heart full to bursting with adoration. The room tilts, just by inches, and impossibly pleasant. Gladio allows his eyes to flutter shut and he inhales Ignis in that favorite spot and he asks a question he knows the answer to by way of knowing Ignis rather than botany.

"What kind of flower is it?" He forms his lips into another kiss, hides the shape of a smile by doing so much. Ignis hesitates and it's utterly charming, entirely endearing, the way his pulse jumps just a little more fervently against Gladio's lips.

"Gladiolus…" his voice strains at the word and Gladio feels tension blossoming across his shoulders and down his back. He lifts his hands to press easy, gentle fingers into tightly wound tendon and quickly warming skin.

"Full name treatment? Should I be scared or aroused?" He teases and he chuckles and he wonders just for a moment if Ignis properly and immediately identifies the farce. He's rewarded with a head tilted back against him, more inches of warm skin to work red beneath his lips, to revisit as a spot well known to Gladio as any other.

"I'm not doing my job if you aren't just a touch of both." It's Ignis's turn to tease now, to let a chuckle catch in that space under Gladio's tongue. He presses flat, sucks lightly at the pulse point, draws a sigh from Ignis that fits perfectly with the near-liquid quality of relaxation his body is taking on. His hands trail down the gentle curve of Ignis's spine and they settle at his hips, draw their bodies closer together until Ignis's back is pressed to his chest, until he can hook his arms tight around his waist and hold him there and rock his hips just enough to make it clear that Ignis is perfectly effective at said  _ job _ .

"A little hard to be scared of a man with pretty flowers on his arm." Gladio guides them backward, a slow walk until his knees hit the back of the couch. He sits slowly and he turns Ignis to face him as he does. And if there's a cue given there, Ignis certainly catches on, the way he crawls into Gladio's lap, straddles his knees about his hips. It's a good look, with his sleeves rolled up to the elbow and his hair falling just slightly out of place, a few stray bangs that Gladio can't stop himself from brushing away from his eyes. Gladio thinks he must have only just come from whatever studio managed to pop up in the first new blooms of their city. Ignis would never let himself be seen in such a state about the Citadel, where people were important again with light and safety secured; where Ignis himself ranked considerably amongst those important people. Anything less than outward perfection was, most often, shared privately between them. Not that Gladio would ever label it as such.

"They're  _ sword  _ lilies, Gladio. Certainly that conveys more than beauty." Gladio smirks at Ignis's brief exasperation and he only barely stops himself from laughing. His hands find purchase at Ignis's backside, soft and inviting curves that he doesn't stop himself from squeezing and kneading as he draws Ignis closer still, until the first heated blush of a growing erection is pressing against his belly, making his heart do an exciting round of gymnastics. 

_ "Somebody  _ here didn't have a mother with a sense for symbolism." His eyes narrow while his lips curl upward and Gladio watches Ignis incline his head, a subtle request that Gladio continue. He does, but not before shifting his hands up Ignis's sides, spanning them across his torso, settling them on his chest so he can begin the slow work of opening buttons. "Sincerity—" he pops open the top button, "—integrity—" the next two follow, thumb working easily, lazily down the line, "—persistence—" he punctuates his syllables each with another closure undone, so that he can spread the shirt open and watch Ignis drop his shoulders to let it slide off. "One other one too." he murmurs the word against skin, lets his lips tease at Ignis's collarbone, trace old love marks.

"What's that?" Ignis's voice is already full of breath, rising in temperature and in tension. It isn't the only reaction his body betrays, with his cock still growing between them. And when Gladio runs his kisses down the center of his chest, when he takes a moment to simply nuzzle a rough cheek at soft skin, to embrace with no motive beyond affection, he can hear Ignis's heart pounding rapidfire beneath. He lingers, doesn't answer immediately, opting instead to trace fingers over defined muscle, lower and lower, to listen when that drumbeat falters and flies as his fingers graze over the button of stretched slacks. 

"Infatuation." He can't decide between any number of feelings to convey with the word. Lust, evidenced by his own cock pressing clothed and aching along the curve of Ignis's ass. Adoration, with all the gentle movements of his lips, of skin against skin. Reverence, the way his eyes sweep over skin, the way his fingers settle so gently in one spot and then another, simply  _ feeling _ . His voice lands somewhere between it all, his eyes shifting up to catch Ignis's, to fan sparks into flame.  

Ignis smiles, brief and inviting and playing across his face in a way that makes Gladio's heart trip in his chest, makes his fingers falter where they've settled again at the line of his pants. It makes his head spin just a little bit, just enough that he can scarcely deny the fact that if there's any deep-rooted infatuation here, he is the primary culprit. There's more than that, of course, between the two of them. It's more than Gladio knows how to name, with feelings he didn't know existed and cannot recapture when Ignis's eyes aren't on him, when their skin isn't pressed together.

"I suppose that's appropriate." Even his voice sends electricity down Gladio's spine, a rush of need and a rush of  _ love  _ that has him shifting, has him turning and flipping Ignis in a smooth motion to thump down on the couch, his head pillowed by the arm and his skin all milky perfection against dark leather. Gladio can't help but stare while he turns those tables, while he gets on one knee with a thigh pressed into the back of the couch and his other leg not quite fitting the sofa, bracing on the hardwood instead. 

"You've got a way of causing it." Gladio grunts the agreement and he isn't slow this time when he braces himself down over Ignis. It's hard to be gentle, hard to be properly reverent when the man is laid beneath him, stretched and eager and looking as good, Gladio thinks, as anyone could. He traces those same well-loved lines, the same roads he's mapped in his mind a million times before. He's a glutton for the taste of Ignis's skin beneath him, a little salty with sweat, utterly and inescapably inviting with heat. He groans with his teeth grazing a nipple, tugging it into a firm bud, as Ignis's back arches harshly beneath the attention and his breath draws a quick gasp and his heart flutters mightily against the onslaught. 

"Gladiolus." This time when Ignis says his full name, there is only one meaning. He doesn't hide his pleasure nor does he conceal his need. His body presses upward in a graceful roll while Gladio works his tongue lower, kissing and lapping and tasting endless expanses of skin. When he reaches his pants, Gladio presses more of those open-mouthed, eager kisses along the bulging outline of Ignis's erection—full and barely contained and throbbing through fabric—and he opens his eyes only so that he can glance up at Ignis. If he was sitting on the precipice of dishevelment before, he's teetered over the edge now. His glasses are knocked slightly askew at the bridge of his nose and his carefully tended hair is undoing itself from spray and pomade against the arm of the couch. He's shameless, staring down at Gladio, heaving chest and trembling thighs and soft sounds of pleasure escaping with those frantic breaths and Gladio can't quite work out how he's falling even more in love with him, even now.   

"I like that." Gladio hums the words while he opens that last button, eases a zipper and then eases Ignis's pants down his hips to bunch around his knees. "Hearing you say my name." He elaborates, before he's laying down kisses again, at the stretched black briefs, already damp in all the eagerness. He doesn't need to say that he likes even more the sounds such attention can produce. He doesn't need to say that he likes watching Ignis writhe on the overstuffed leather, that he's so damn captivated by his body, by the things he can  _ do  _ to that body. Ignis knows all of that, though Gladio is tempted to remind him by other means.

"Lucky for you, I quite enjoy saying it." Ignis breathes out his tease and it's only another moment to catch Gladio utterly off guard, to turn him inside out where he's knelt. His own cock is heavy and aching against his jeans, throbbing for attention, testing his patience. But it's easy to set aside, easy enough to ignore for the moment, because Ignis breaths his name again when Gladio peels down his briefs and exposes him properly. And he says it once more, when Gladio's mouth heats up along his shaft, when his tongue traces heavy veins in a long, impossibly slow journey upward. Everything about Ignis is a reward. The bitter salt, the heady scent of him, the way his his rise under the attention and the way he can't manage Gladio's name a third time when his lips wrap slow and tight around his head.

It's hard to choose a point of focus, if Gladio is honest with himself. He wants to keep his eyes open and shifted upward. He wants to take in every miniscule reaction Ignis offers him. He wants to watch sweat bead up around his mussed hairline, testament to Gladio forgetting—once again—to find a fan for their open window. He wants to watch his teeth press down on his lower lip, an attempt—one that will fail—to keep some hint of composure. An attempt, perhaps, to quiet some of those perfect little sounds. Just the same, he wants to close his eyes and he wants to lose himself in the act of simply pleasing Ignis. He wants to focus on the way his tongue dips against his slit and makes him shudder, while his hand plays at his balls, all tight heat growing tighter by the moment.

He settles on paying full attention to the task at hand, lets his eyes fall shut in a more internal sort of focus. He laps at Ignis, at the way he's already leaking bitter heat, the way he pulses and twitches when Gladio swirls his tongue around the head, when he dives a little deeper sucks at him, fevered and eager to bring him ever close to that edge. It's getting harder, in a manner of speaking, to ignore his own need though. He groans and he shifts and he presses his clothed erection down onto the top of Ignis's leg, grinding and eager for heat. And he groans around Ignis's fullness in his mouth when he feels the presence of lithe, long fingers tangling through his hair, petting and encouraging and impossibly gentle in their guidance.

Gladio would stay there, perfectly pleased to draw Ignis to completion, to swallow him down and work himself off and simply draw the man into his arms to lounge and doze away some bit of the evening after. But as Ignis's hips buck, as his thighs turn tight and his fingers grip heavily in Gladio's hair, he bids him to stop and he pushes him back, breathless and flush and, when Gladio opens his eyes and sits himself up, looking somehow better still. Gladio is breathless too and he swipes the back of his hand against wet, swollen lips while he drinks in the sight. He's still dressed, confining jeans and sweat-dampened black tank and body heated and thrumming beneath it all. Ignis shifts and he tugs at the shirt with a thumb and forefinger, focuses on catching his breath rather than speaking, but makes his command clear all the same. Gladio is quick to shift out of the top, to toss it aside and lean himself back and sit on display for Ignis to admire in such an open way that Gladio's cheeks go warm and pink.

"You look amazing." Ignis says the words while he moves his hand to Gladio's thigh, running heavy over the inside, pinning his leg further to the couch. The statement itself is enough to make Gladio groan, never mind the fact that Ignis is using far less care than he had in the process of opening pants, releasing and treating them both to eager touches. He strokes him heavy and pleasing and just as Gladio prefers and it's enough to have his head tilting back and his eyes closing for a moment or two, simply revelling in the relief of attention. "Astounding." Ignis adds a breath of wonder to that initial statement. Gladio can feel eyes on him, can feel Ignis shifting upward for a better view, devouring the display when his thumb dips down, presses firm, shoots electricity through Gladio and makes him gasp. 

Gladio considers raising an objection, perhaps pointing out that Ignis looks infinitely better, more appealing and so near perfect that it simply isn't  _ fair.  _ Instead, he opens his eyes and lowers his head, stares down at Ignis through heavy lashes and behind heavier, huffed breaths and he asks, "how do you want me?" The question makes Ignis smile, something hinting at mischief, burning with seduction, piercing through Gladio with perfect ease. And Gladio, well, he only wants to draw more of those smiles, to draw more pleasure, to make Ignis feel so good as he looks. To make him feel so perfect as he  _ is.  _

"Just like this." Ignis thinks about his response, or at least appears to, before he offers it. His eyes never stop working over Gladio, don't tug away until he's making a long stretch with one arm, fumbling unseeing with the side table's drawer and fishing just as blindly within. Gladio is poised to save him the effort, leaning forward to reach, but Ignis finds his mark and retrieves the bottle of lube from the table, then hooks an arm around Gladio's waist to tug him closer in the same breath. Gladio rocks his hips in response, all on instinct, all for that same starvation for contact twitching between his legs. They brush together, not quite pleasing, but a step close enough to make him shudder, to make his eyes go half-lidded at the promise.

"I assume  _ patience  _ isn't one of your namesake's qualities." Ignis's tease makes Gladio smile even if it makes his cheeks go a little bit warm once more. He grunts an admission of guilt, but it's distracted, half-hearted, with his eyes absolutely glued to Ignis. He watches him open that convenient bottle—one of countless, given their tendencies—and slick himself up and Gladio's impatience is on full display with the way his cock gives a heavy leap against his belly, the way his tongue drags instinctively over his battered lips. He's tempted, all sense aside, to forego any further delay, to ignore all necessary preparation in favor of bearing himself down at once, feeling that impossible heat and fullness driven into him.

Ignis knows Gladio though, knows him better than Gladio knows himself. He wets his fingers again and traces them over the firm, round shape of Gladio's ass. He doesn't waste time in gliding a finger down the crack, teasing at his hole and smirking while he watches Gladio's eyes widen and feels his body press instinctively toward him. Gladio leaves all the responsibility to Ignis here—nothing new, if he's being horribly honest—and he finds himself lost to the easy, almost lazy way Ignis goes about opening him up. He works slow and heated and with plenty of wet. He allows pleased sighs of his own when he curls and strokes his fingers in that way that makes Gladio absolutely keen. He uses the contact to guide Gladio into putting on a show, with his back arched and breaths heavy beneath the ink on his chest, his hair tumbled down over his shoulders and stuck on spots against his cheek and his forehead. With his cock leaking and throbbing, rocking in time with his trembling thighs and thundering pulse.

_ "Iggy."  _ The way Gladio injects such pleading into his voice borders on petulance. The way his face twists while he's gasping at a pointed, pressed hooking of Ignis's fingers within him, certainly crosses that line entirely. If Ignis tends more toward formality, toward enunciating Gladiolus's full name in slow, lazy syllables, Gladio himself is just the opposite. He breathes the nickname in sharp gasps and heavy expirations and he rocks himself against Ignis's fingers, as if that begging isn't quite enough to make his desire clear.

"You know I just  _ adore  _ watching you beg." Ignis's voice is a dagger wrapped in silk. His fingers—the ones not pressed still inside Gladio, working a final stretch—cup his cheek and brush some of the hanging hair from it. He takes a long look at Gladio's face, at his eyes carefully unobscured. He thumbs through wiry beard and he drags a delicate touch down the line of his jaw, down his throat, down to rest briefly against his chest. "You're lucky I enjoy watching you ride me even more." 

It's encouragement enough, even before Ignis's fingers wrench out of him, leaving Gladio feeling momentarily empty, cold, needier than ever. But Ignis's hands both plant on his hips and they guide him forward. It's a tricky position—the couch isn't quite big enough for Gladio to fit both knees, to find proper purchase over Ignis. They shift though, Ignis rises and turns and now it's Gladio in his lap while they're sitting up properly, Ignis's back sunken into the sofa's. He looks so damn good like that, so unspeakably attractive, entirely  _ perfect _ that Gladio is taken aback for just a moment. He catches himself halted, Ignis's cock pressed just at his entrance while he simply  _ stares.  _ Gladio commits the moment, the view to memory, before he's sinking down, taking Ignis slow and full.

There are still hints of pain, burning and stretching around the edges that burst behind Gladio's eyes and make his breath catch for a moment. No amount of preparation every fully erases that initial sensation, but it's one that he enjoys, one that he craves, one that has him burying his face once more at the edge of Ignis's throat. He warms the already heated skin there further with a long, low breath, a groan rumbling through it. He would stay, his face and his lips all pressed in that spot, his hair draping down Ignis's back, but his head is drawn up by those gentle fingers, his eyes caught by Ignis's, all hazy with the sensation.

"Let me see you." Gladio is the one left with all the pleas, because when Ignis says the words they're nothing short of a command. He rights himself, swings his head back briefly to move his hair from his face. He turns his back to a heavy arch and he braces his hands behind him on Ignis's knees, large and heavy and gripping. He obeys the words immediately and he feels a new rush of heat from the action of doing so. Ignis telling him just how to sit, just how to move, just how to offer the perfect sort of pleasure—Gladio will never tire of it.

"Can I move?" His thighs are already aching at the idea of fucking himself down, a delicious sort of burning that Gladio just barely contains to ask permission first. Ignis hums in response, smiles, and he wraps a hand around Gladio's cock before he nods his assent. 

"Slow." Ignis warns. He sets an easy, nearly snail pace with his hand stroking over Gladio's cock. He's still wearing that smirk even as he's flush and breathless. Even as Gladio can tell it's taking some great deal of restraint for Ignis not to buck up into him where he sits. "You're not going to last long otherwise." It's true, though Gladio makes another petulant sound at the words. He wants to argue that it isn't his fault, that his own hand isn't nearly so pleasing and the duties of rebuilding the city have left their schedules and utterly cruel odds for too long. Instead, he cocks his head and he lifts himself, then lowers, a slow rock that matches the rhythm of Ignis's wrist.

"Neither are you." He challenges. The response Gladio wins is a head-spinning sort of duality. Ignis makes a sound, a low moan in his throat that betrays the affirmative. He, at the same time, grips his fingers harsh and heavy into Gladio's hips, guides him down harder, quicker, while his hips snap up to meet him. The little splinters of pain beneath carefully manicured nails turn Gladio to liquid heat, make him feel like Ignis is at risk of being just a little bit  _ too  _ correct in his assessment. 

"Only means we'll have time for a second round." Ignis's voice is shockingly steady and that particular promise shoots more fire through Gladio's veins, makes his heart flip in his chest while his stomach goes tight and his cock throbs beneath that grip. He has a point there, Gladio must admit, though he has little time to dwell on it. "Keep going. Follow me." Ignis instructs, voice firm without being harsh, impossibly commanding when there's still such a breathy, lusty quality to it.

Gladio follows this command, too. His pace quickens with Ignis's strokes. His grip falters for a moment and he adjusts, puts his hands to Ignis's shoulders instead. Ignis, in turn, leans closer. This time, he's the one to press his face against flesh. He's the one to lay heated, open-mouthed, desperate kisses on every inch of Gladio that he can reach, all while they draw each other closer. All while they move quicker, more urgently, with snapping hips and smacking skin and grunts and gasps that get lost in one another.

"I'm nearly there—" Ignis's warning is punctuated with a gasp. He breathes it at Gladio's ear and he nips at the lobe after. They're tangled together, moving with such fervent desperation now, that Gladio can barely hear it, can barely feel that sensation. One of his favorites. Then again, every way that Ignis touches him counts among that list.

"C'mon, Iggy. Lemme make you." There's a hint of pleading even now, even when it's all Gladio can do to form the words. "Fill me up." He adds, and his hands grip a little bit harder at Ignis's shoulders, his thighs shake and tense at his redoubled efforts. He manages a little curse, a brief  _ 'fuck' _ beneath his breath when Ignis's wrist twists on him, his thumb delving heavily down his slit again. His hips shift, angle, make Gladio's vision erupt briefly into a million pinpricks of light. And when Gladio is suddenly frozen, spurting and spilling over Ignis's hand and between their bellies, Ignis makes a perfectly pleased sound of his own.

Ignis's strength, Gladio can only think distantly, in the haze of pleasure and overstimulation, is easily forgotten; easily forgotten until Ignis is turning them without a hint of exertion, until he's got Gladio's back on the couch and he's tugging at his thighs to wrap them around his waist and he's driving into him, relentless and rough and lost for rhythm. And if Gladio makes a pretty sight—which he wants to think he does—all coated with sweat and semen, hair plastered to his face and back sunken and bouncing into the couch, Ignis is entirely transcendent.

Gladio doesn't receive—nor does he require—any further warning. Ignis's hands are still gripping Gladio's thighs, tight and stretching him and holding for dear life when he finishes. There's a ripple of tension across his muscles that Gladio cannot tear his eyes from. Ignis is an impossible sort of beauty even in the worst of times, with all the lean, defined muscle. With the scars that hint at all the hell they narrowly avoided. With that damned  _ face _ . And this is quite the opposite of the worst of times. This is Ignis's face turning twisted and wide-eyed and entirely undignified. 

Gladio isn't sure there's anything he loves more, could love more, in that exact moment. Something so simple as giving up control is never so simple for Ignis. This—more than any amount of dishevelment or apparent exhaustion—is something for Gladio's eyes alone. Something treasured just as much as the sudden weight on his chest when Ignis withdraws and collapses there. Something treasured as much as every moment Gladio can steal with him, can find twined in his arms, with spreading mess between and beneath them. And with Ignis, for a few blessed moments at least, content to ignore it. 

"You're amazing, you know that?" Gladio can't help but nudge his shoulder a little, to encourage Ignis's face to rise just enough that he might catch the flush he knew well would follow the words. So impossibly endearing. That fullness in his chest returns and when Ignis only smiles and returns to lounging with his cheek pillowed there, Gladio can feel his heart skip a beat beneath. Perfection. There just wasn't any other way to put it.

"So you continue to insist." Ignis's response is half lost to Gladio's skin, all rumbling breath and warmth that seeps right down to his bones.

"You coulda hidden it, y'know. I'm surprised." Gladio is all tired musing now, exhaustion catching his body off guard, sinking into him just as he's sinking into the sofa. Ignis, on the other hand, lifts his head and offers a confused inclination of it. Gladio tries to clarify by tracing with perfect care the skin around that fresh tattoo. Instead of displaying any new understanding, though, Ignis frowns.

"Why on earth would I hide it?" The hint of offense in his voice makes Gladio tilt his head, take in Ignis's expression more fully. He reaches to brush more fallen hair from his eyes and he smiles, something close to apologetic. 

"Not  _ everyone  _ is well-versed in the language of flowers. What meaning do you think people will take from it?" Gladio, for his part, somewhat regrets the course the conversation has taken. It was only awe that brought the initial words to his lips, only all that warm adoration that he can never totally quell. He only regrets it for a moment, though. Just a heartbeat or two before Ignis speaks.

"If they've any sense, they'll take that I'm a man impulsive enough to put his lover's name on his arm. And that said lover will tear them to pieces should they question it." Gladio, in a rare moment, can't quite say how much of Ignis's words are meant to tease or joke. But he smiles and he curls an arm around his waist and decides he doesn't particularly care about that detail.

* * *

 

 

_ There is a man in Insomnia, in service of the Chosen King, who wears flowers on his sleeve. They say he can kill with a single look. They say the King's Shield was pierced at heart by his blade and that he never managed to recover.   _

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr.](http://swordliliesandebony.tumblr.com/)


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